


Lakeside Things

by novahainn



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fakiru Week 2017, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapping, Loneliness, basically just fakir and ahiru being sad with each other and helping each other feel better, i dunno all these tags seem pretty dark, i promise the ending is like... content, not happy happy but like alright, this uses the fakiru week prompts from last year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 01:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16379147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novahainn/pseuds/novahainn
Summary: Some things just aren't meant to last, so it's best to enjoy them while they do.





	1. Silver

**Author's Note:**

> A multi-chapter fic based on the fakiru week prompts, and a ghost AU, which means that there will be sad parts. Please don't read if you are triggered by the topic of death, discussions of suicide (don't worry, not a spoiler, she didn't kill herself but it may be discussed), and anything of that sort.
> 
> Also, as a notice, it's not like... super romantic fakiru or anything like that, and you'll see why. There may be a bit, but not that much. Plot stuff.

The pen taps rhythmically against the blank page as he stares at the lake. Whatever will had possessed him five minutes ago seems to have disappeared like the frosty mist of his breath. The blanket he sits on is rough to the touch and scrapes against his ankles slightly, the muddy grass squelching unpleasantly as he shifts. The blanket had been a good idea. It isn't the nice, pretty kind - some picnic blankets are - it's the coarse kind, the colour faded and the edges frayed with age. The blanket had been a good idea, but coming outside barefoot and with no coat had certainly not. Again, he questions the will that had possessed him five minutes ago to do such a thing.  _The only thing keeping me here is not wanting to walk back through that mud, otherwise…_  He sighs, looking back out to the lake. The day is decidedly grey, as is the surface of the water. It is still, empty - the ducks must be holed up somewhere warm.  _I wish_ I  _was holed up somewhere warm,_  he thinks wryly, scowling at his reflection. The first page of the new notebook in front of him remains blank, devoid of any blemishes or broken images. The silver tip of the pen catches the light as he taps it against the page again before looking out at the lake once more.  _Something, anything, anything will do_.

Something shifts in the air. His breath catches in his throat as his eyebrows furrow. He feels lightheaded suddenly. He must be lightheaded, because he is sure he can see someone standing on the surface of the lake. With a sharp click, he begins to scrawl furiously on the page, not even looking down or bothering to keep it neat at all. Whatever it is that his mind is dreaming up, he takes it. He watches, captivated, as she twirls across the water. Her arms move around her and he recognises the movements as ballet, but it is a casual dance; no pointe work or rigid arabesques, all flutters and ripples and the swishing of a pale dress. And as she dances, he writes her, turns her into a heap of fragments and builds her up again, and he hardly knows what he scribbles as he does.

Suddenly, she pivots, her thick, loose curls whipping around as she turns to face him, standing very still. She looks small, her limbs thin, her fingers curled slightly as her arms hang at her sides. Her eyes look large in her small face, very large, large enough to stare right into the deepest nooks and crannies of his soul. He holds her gaze, his scrawling ground to a halt. A thin mist rolls over the surface of the lake. She disappears.

He blinks; once, twice, three times. He is alone again, the fancy gone and his pen held immobile over the messy page. He looks down at it. His writing is almost illegible but he concentrates for a few minutes, managing to make it out and rewriting it on the next page, before breathing deeply. The afternoon air tastes damp, heavy on his tongue.  _It's going to rain_. The fog of his exhale dissipates as he looks down at the blanket, dreading the thought of walking through the mud but knowing he must. The notebook falls closed as he shifts into a crouched position to stand.

"You write really nicely."

He freezes in his movements. He hadn't heard anyone walk up behind him, and he  _certainly_ hadn't noticed anyone read over his shoulder. He turns, ready to spit fire.

The flame dies pathetically in his throat.

From a distance it had been difficult to make out any solid colours, what with the misty air between them, but up close he can see every dark freckle sprinkled across her nose. He can see the dark, silver strands of her curls and the faded silver of her skin. He can see the dull grey of her eyes, which he is sure shouldn't look so  _empty_ and should be more vivid, more lively. He can see the lumps of muddy grass behind her, stares at them right through her translucent form.

She fiddles with her fingers, floating backwards a little, the tips of her toes only brushing the grass. "Um…"

He stares unabashedly, struggling to swallow. The white dress she wears looks more like a length of fabric, wrapped around her with the ends knotted at the base of her neck. Like a sheet.

Like a shroud.

He bolts. He bolts, and he doesn't stop running until he's over the threshold and the door slams behind him, he doesn't stop until he's sitting on the doormat with his back against the closed door, staring at his muddy feet.

* * *

Despite the few hours between the harrowing encounter and now, he still can't fathom what happened. The only thing he does know is that the weight of guilt sits heavily in his chest. The least he could have done was say something after he had written about her so shamelessly, as if she were his to turn to and fro with the flow of ink from his pen. Instead, he had run away.  _I really am a coward._

The wind howls outside, the rain pounding the windows. He had left his blanket, notebook, and pen outside. They were likely soaked through by now, the pathetic remnants of his idiocy hopefully disappearing into the lake as running ink. He could have stayed. He didn't have anything to lose, or anything better to do. And she seemed… nice.  _It feels weird to be thinking about a ghost's personality_.

Ghost. The word remains at the forefront of his mind, and he feels stupid for it, but he knows that that's the only thing she can be. He won't repeat the mistake of assuming she was a figment of his imagination - clearly, that hadn't worked out well the first time.

He sighs, pulling the blanket - a nice one this time, thick and soft and woolly - closer around him as he sits cross-legged on the sofa.  _I don't have anything better to do_. The thought feels forlorn, inadequate. Years ago he had had so many plans for the future, as a child, many of which were grossly impossible but still  _existed_. Now… nothing. He can hardly string words together, and when he does, look what happens! He smiles wryly to himself. God, or luck, or whatever governing force there is, seems to be working against him. He hadn't even realised how empty his life is until a ghost had appeared before him, of all things.  _You would think that it would be obvious._

The wind howls again, the window frame shaking slightly from the force of the gusts outside. He stares at it, the dim light of the lamp next to him doing nothing to help him see. He pauses in his thoughts. He takes a breath, then another. He grumbles, letting his legs fall off the sofa and getting up to walk towards the thin sheet of glass, not knowing what to expect when he looks out but finding himself holding his breath anyway. He peers through, shooting back immediately and falling on his behind, eyes wide.

She is there. In fact, he had been almost nose-to-nose with her before falling clumsily. She floats outside his window, head quirked to the side and a nervous look on her face as she fiddles with her fingers again. He releases the breath he was holding; somehow, it is much easier to fathom her presence when her personality shines through every motion no matter how dull her eyes are.  _She's… sweet_. The thought feels fitting. Warm.

She points towards him, jabbing a little with her finger. A simple question. He's not sure why he stops to think about it, particularly after spending hours mentally kicking himself, but he can't help it. The thought of a ghost outside his window still hasn't fully sunk in. Another deep breath. A slow nod. She nods in return, reaching towards him.

Her hand slips right through the glass.


	2. Motif

Fakir pokes the mound that is the blanket covering his notebook, recoiling at the unpleasant dampness. It is completely soaked through. Ahiru sighs behind him. "I asked the ducks to pull the blanket over it but it didn't seem to help at all…"

He turns, looking at her skeptically. "You asked the ducks."

"Yep."

"Just… casually."

"How else am I supposed to ask?"

He snorts, shaking his head before turning and poking the mound again. "You're weirder than I thought."

She glides in front of him, fists balled and a pout on her face. "I'm not weird!"

"Idiot."

"Hey!" she whines, huffing and floating out onto the surface of the lake. She spins a few times as she had done the previous day. "That's not fair after you watched me dance."

He reels back, almost falling backwards onto the muddy grass in the process. He looks away to hide his reddening cheeks. "I already apologised for that."

"I know, but you were being mean."

"I didn't mean it in a rude way."

"I could tell, I'm just teasing."

He glares at her from the bank. She sticks her tongue out before proceeding to spin around and around across the water's surface. He grumbles —cheeky of her to act like she can read me already, who does she think she is? It took Mytho years. I only talked to her… He pauses in his thought, the idea of having talked to a ghost all night sitting oddly in his mind. It had been pleasant. Albeit awkward at first, and despite his lack of any sort of social skills, her open and cheery personality and her tendency to babble had continuously broken any uncomfortable silences until they simply didn't occur. Eight hours sped by as quickly as Uzura spotting a balloon stand. I guess she knows me a little now, but not that much. Idiot.

He pokes the wet mound again, yelping when it slips right off the bank and into the lake. Ahiru giggles from across the lake, sticking her tongue out again when he scowls at her then diving headfirst into the water. It remains still as her long braid whips after her, not even causing a ripple. She had knotted her bushy curls into a braid at some point between discussing Swan Lake — one of her favourite ballets — and Ahiru's screaming laughter at Fakir choking on tea upon hearing her story of a boy who rode a bull around town and asked her to be his girlfriend while his butler fanned rose petals through the air. Fakir hadn't known what to make of it. "The next day, I saw him asking my friend the same thing! She chased him around the square throwing everything she had on her, it was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen."

She promptly pops out of the water in front of him, eliciting another yelp of surprise. "It's deeper than it looks, I can't see it. Sorry about your writing."

"It doesn't matter." He stands, wiping his hands on his trousers to hide his renewed embarrassment and stretching. "I didn't really want it anyway."

"Why not? It was good!"

"I just didn't. Stop asking questions."

"Jerk."

"Idiot."

"Meanie."

"Meanie? Really?"

"Meanie is a perfectly good insult."

He snorts, walking away with her floating along next to him.

* * *

Ahiru disappears as they turn the corner. Fakir quickly hides his surprise as a mother and her child walk by, and looks around for her as soon as they disappear.

"I'm here." She says next to him. He turns, seeing nothing and frowning.

"Invisible?"

"Yeah. It's how I hid from people all these years."

He continues walking, assuming that she keeps up and keeping his voice low. "Why didn't you hide from me?"

"I didn't notice you," she says, her voice sounding slightly mortified. "I told you that I don't like people watching me dance, but I didn't realise you were there. I thought it'd be empty since even the ducks were gone."

"But you noticed me later and disappeared."

"Yes. And you know the rest."

"Ah."

They continue walking, careful of people hearing Fakir talking to the air or the air miraculously talking back. At one point, down a particularly busy street, Fakir pulls out his phone and pretends to reply while Ahiru whispers in his other ear. The method seems to work; no one pays him any mind.

"Sorry about this," Ahiru whispers.

"It's fine," he replies, glancing in her direction. "We'll get used to it."

* * *

He skids into the living room where Ahiru is watching television. She floats above the carpet, cross-legged with her hands resting on her knees as if in meditation. Fakir pauses for a moment, contemplating how she looks like some sort of genie, before blurting, "Raetsel's coming."

Ahiru's legs drop as she spins around. "Who?"

Fakir gasps, trying to catch his breath. "She's like my sister. Sort of. She just called and said she'll be here in five minutes."

"Five?!" Ahiru screeches, looking around.

"Yes."

"Oh! Okay." Her expression becomes crestfallen. She floats sideways towards the wall. "I'll be off then, I'll go visit the ducks."

"No," Fakir says suddenly. Ahiru stops, her grey eyes dull but widening in surprise. Fakir gulps — he hadn't meant to reply so quickly. "I…" He pauses. He had felt sorry for her upon seeing her disappointment, but now he just feels awkward. "You… can hide in my room. You can keep watching whatever you want on the laptop."

Her face lights up as she zooms towards him, fists clenched in excitement. "Really?"

"Yeah. Quick, let's go, she's almost here."

Two minutes later, the doorbell rings and Raetsel stands in the doorway. She has a long, cream-coloured scarf wrapped around her neck, the ends hanging up to her thighs, which she pulls off and hangs on the hook next to the door, followed by her brown coat with fur trimming. "Sorry for dropping in so suddenly, I had an appointment in town that was cancelled so I thought I'd visit." Her boots click as she follows him into the living room.

"What appointment?" he asks, taking her leather gloves and placing them on the coffee table before dropping down next to her on the sofa.

She smiles shyly, her hand falling to her stomach. "An ultrasound."

Fakir blinks, staring at the hand resting against her muted orange jumper. "You're pregnant?" She nods. He smiles back. "Congratulations. What did Hans say?"

"I haven't told him yet," she replies, resting back against the cushions as she pulls her low ponytail over her shoulder. "I wanted to tell him after getting the first ultrasound photos. Make it a nice surprise. Maybe I'll stick them inside a card when I get them."

"That's just like you."

They sit in silence for a minute. Fakir takes the moment to listen attentively; he hadn't been able to check if the volume of the laptop was too loud. He had left Ahiru in his room, positioned on his bed as if she was lying down on her stomach, propped up on her elbows. I need to ask her if it takes any effort to hold those positions since she can't touch things. Ghosts are weird.

Raetsel breaks the silence. "You seem well."

"I am." Fakir shifts. He knows where this is heading.

"You haven't visited in a while."

He resists the urge to sigh. "I haven't been able to."

"Why not?"

"I've been busy."

"Fakir." He looks up into her deep, blue eyes. She squints at him. "Usually I'd give you a lecture about family and all that, but… you look well."

"I look well," he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

"Better. You look better."

His thoughts come to a screeching halt. "What?"

She sighs, turning to lean on her side. "Lately, you haven't been yourself. Distanced. Quiet."

"I'm always quiet."

"Quieter, then. I know you, Fakir, and you know that as well as I do. I'm serious. Something's changed."

Fakir holds his breath. The possibility of Raetsel asking what exactly has changed is high, and he knows full well that he can't exactly say "I have a ghost friend now, she's nice, I guess I was lonely". He almost scoffs at the thought. Fine, I was lonely, but I'm not going to admit it.

Instead, Raetsel shakes her head at him, smirking. He lets the breath go. "I'm fine. Really. Don't worry about it."

She hums, nodding slowly before suddenly perking up again. She sits up straight, pulling away from the cushions. "Is there noise coming from your bedroom?"

Between blabbered excuses and vague gestures, Fakir manages to convince Raetsel that he left the laptop on without realising with no more rebuttal than a raising of thin eyebrows and a teasing tut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand chapter two! I mentioned that the chapters are all gonna be quite short, right? Well, they are.
> 
> This one's more of a filler. I found it difficult, but the motifs (of sorts) are ducks (mentioned in each section), odd ghost tendencies, and complications caused by Ahiru's incorporeal form. Not very well written but there. Sort of. Anyway, until next time!


End file.
